#1 (February 09)
You are astounding
In this colorless, gray maze
You are a phoenix, rising, ablaze
But you are more than beauty to me
You are hope that someone can again make me feel the way I did then
You are proof that the boy inside is alive and well,
Even buried beneath the avalanche of responsibility and the mundane
You see, I had almost given up on poetry
For nothing struck the spark of astonishment and wonder in my heart
Nothing begged the cosmic question the way still water in streetlight does
Or a dazzling October moon, or the towering evergreens of the Cascades
But you do
Now, it is true, I am no Shakespeare, and certainly no Milton
My words do not enchant
Nor are they silk at the utterance
But the fact that my poetry is not graceful
And that its lines are inelegant
Is trivial in my mind
For I thought poetry dead to me
And you have resurrected it
On the fringes of your wings
#2 (March 09)
Blank pages full of writing lie on this desk
Confirming unexpress(able)ed ponderings
The frustrated lines, with no meaning or art
Beg for release from their tortuous cave
But I am ill equipped to lead, having neither map nor staff
And so I am confined to the company my torments
Such irony that I am both prisoner and warden.
#3 (April 09)
You are the ache of every waking hour,
The haunting in my dreams.
My sleeping sorrow, my waking pain
I stare into your eyes, and you look away again.
Beauty unsung ends this poem short.
You bitter, two edged sword!
I cut my finger on the gleam in your eyes.
#4 (June 09)
I don’t know you
But I wish I did
Meeting you tonight set me on fire
A panic to be noticed
I’d act like an idiot if I thought you’d see me
Casual talk of romance by the fire
And we disagree
“Sweet simplicity” you say
“Complex,” the Cynic replies
Did your amber eyes pierce my sophistry?
For the real disagreement was between mouth and heart
Just look into my eyes
And I will embrace sweet simplicity
#5 (June 09)
I am Abelard
You are Heloise
No symbol implied.
Our once burning passions,
were reduced to ashes,
under buckets of water
poured from the sky.
And under what remains
Embers still burn
Hot at the thought
An inescapable Hell.
Sadly Love, there is but one
One righteous end.
You go your way,
I go mine
And if our love will not relent
We’ll escape the day that we die.
#6 (July 09)
If the green light means go
Why am I sitting here watching colors pass?
Green, yellow, red
Green, yellow, red
The night is young
Don’t stop the music! Rihanna tells me
But no amount of fast food or late night hip hop
will press this gas pedal down
Same intersection. Still no movement.
Don’t stop the music…
I feel empty.
Do I want Taco Bell (left) or McDonalds (right)?
Wait why the hell am I thinking about feeding my full stomach
When my soul remains so very empty, my heart so very dark?
Don’t stop the music…
I remember now
It’s just part of the game
Juggle your passions, and maybe you can satisfy the monster
That’s how you play, right?
Shovel in as much shit as you can
And maybe the monster’s watering mouth will overflow long enough for you to run
Don’t stop the…
Our souls were meant to be filled
I mean, really filled
I was never meant to feed a monster
My soul was never designed for substitutes
But tonight, that is what it will get
I will distract myself with cheap fast food
And late night hiphop
I’ll feed the monster
Then I’ll step on the gas, and make my get-away
Maybe I even have enough fuel to drive myself to exhaustion
If I can’t think, maybe I’ll be able to breath
Maybe I’ll be able to sleep
Maybe I’ll tell myself tomorrow will be different
#7 (Sept ’09)
You, my dear, walk a razors edge
Once your loveliest attribute, independence is your curse
And by calling me ‘friend’ you pour it over my head
Friendship, far from a virtue, is your childish passion
And you experiment wickedly
You lay your bait and cast your spells
Who could resist your charms?
But your praise is cheap
And that is your great rebuke
The victims of your experiments are toys, the instruments of your self-study
They are your living, breathing, feeling
You are the worst breed of tyrant
You poison your own wine
And pass the cup
We are all sick.
#8 (January ’10)
Be you friend or foe
Oh fickle guardian of love?
Under your spell hearts grow fonder
As for mine
#9 (February ’11)
Oh to be like the poets
Who need neither God nor lover
(though they long for both);
Who find rest for their tired, trembling hearts
In the curve, sweep, and loop of the pen.
The poet cares not if his lines are searched
by the object of his attention.
The words are sufficient to supply
release, relief, rest.
This comfort I am without
The poet inside has again gone away
His desk cleaned but for a thin layer of dust
and a few scattered jottings.
“Sight, sound, and smell” they say.
“Show, but don’t tell!”
These rules I cannot obey
For to show is not enough.
To tell of love is the anywhere but here.
Look above, see what I see;
Jumbled lines and disordered desires